


Matelote Normande

by Typewriterblood



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Dialogue Heavy, Domestic, Feet, First Kiss, Fluff, Foot Fetish, Foot Massage, I don't have a foot fetish I swear but:, Living Together, M/M, Massage, Professionalism, Socks, Teaching, could this be a first kiss?, having conversations, professor graham, sharing space, this is vaguely established relationship?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typewriterblood/pseuds/Typewriterblood
Summary: Will Graham comes home after a long day on his feet lecturing. Hannibal is in the middle of making a stew, but stops to give Will some much-needed care
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 55





	Matelote Normande

* * *

* * *

Heaving a heavy sigh, Will sunk into the couch. He left his messenger bag slumped against the coffee table, eager to sit down and hardly managing a 'hello' in Hannibal's direction in the kitchen. He scrunched his face, removing his glasses, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It was nice to have some of the feeling back in his features after feigning a confident, calm professor for hours. As a treat, he furrowed his brow.

“Long day, Will?” Hannibal asked. 

“Isn’t every day?” He grimaced. 

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitched into a faint smile as he crushed garlic beneath the long, flat blade of his knife. 

“It seems my own days fall under the typical 24 hour mark, compared to yours.”

Will took care in removing his shoes and carefully setting them to the side before swinging his legs up onto the rest of the couch. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, vaguely reconsidering his teaching position at the academy. Standing for hours on end and answering pointless questions wasn’t really life-fulfilling. He turned to face Hannibal, watching him toss chopped parsley into the massive stainless steel pot he stood before like it were a cauldron.

“Do you ever wish you still taught?”

Hannibal made an absent, considering sound before switching to peeling and slicing carrots into perfect medallions. 

“In some ways, I am still teaching others. Being a psychiatrist has no lack of problem-solving, and oftentimes I do prescribe homework to my patients.”

“But that leather  _ chair _ …” Will groaned. “I wish I could teach while sitting in a chair like that. Or any chair, for that matter. Whatever ‘mind-molding’ I do is mediocre compared to what gravity does to my ankles after my second hour pacing the room. Waxing poetic about motives behind butchered families.” 

His voice drifted off to silence. Hannibal broke it.

“Why don’t you?”

“ _Why don’t I_ , what?”

“Why don’t you sit?”

Will barked a laugh and ran a hand through his hair. 

“It isn’t  _ professional, _ I’m told. Though if I dressed more like you, I could probably get away with a lot more in terms of  _ professionalism. _ ”

Hannibal set the knife down and turned the heat low to simmer, wiping his hands gently on a hand towel. He strode into the living room, nodding towards Will’s legs. He lifted them half-heartedly while Hannibal slid underneath them, feeling their weight cover him like...a lapdog. The elevation soothed his blood flow, and Will let out a deep breath. Almost instantly, Hannibal curled his long fingers around the bones of each of Will’s ankles and gave a tight squeeze as Will hissed from the sensation. Hannibal gave him a gentle, inquiring look, inching his hands slightly beyond the hem of Will’s slacks until he felt the thin brush of hair hiding beneath. Will wriggled slightly, but settled back at the slow coasting of Hannibal’s thumb against his legs. 

“What are you doing?” He breathed. 

“Were you not suggesting that I relieve your pain?” 

He pushed his thumbs strongly into the tightness of Will’s tendons, sliding the pressure upwards and back down, pleased with the way Will scooted closer to the touch. 

“That isn’t what you’re used to doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“When you plunged the knife into my belly, was that your sick idea of an internal massage?”

Hannibal winced lightly and dug his fingernails into Will’s skin when he responded. 

“We both know what that was. No need for explanation.”

Will sent a gust of air through his nose, a sort of forced, suppressed laugh. He held his hand over the long smile hidden by his button-up, unable to feel it through the fabric but knowing precisely how far it stretched as he followed the path with his palm. Hannibal watched carefully, still with his hands manipulating Will’s ankles, stretching them forward and back, and holding them there for a few seconds as the muscles re-adjusted. 

“It was nice to hold you, as you bled.” Hannibal admitted softly. “Despite my disappointment, there was much pleasure in having you so near to me.”

Will managed a sad smile. 

“It was nice to be held,” He said. Hannibal glanced in his direction. “By you.”

Will felt the arch of his foot submit to the prodding of Hannibal’s fingers, and his heart stuttered. Hannibal repeated the movement, hesitating before pushing back each of Will’s toes with equal care. For a moment, he considered removing the dress socks Will had so carefully managed to match up that morning, but the thought just as quickly vanished. Will had closed his eyes, and let his hands relax at his sides. His breathing was slowed. Hannibal repeated the massage from the beginning, savoring the way Will’s neck arched at specific touches. Gently releasing his ankles, Hannibal propped himself over the length of Will’s tired body. He ran a hand over his curls, feeling emotion flood into himself. He couldn’t stop from smiling when Will had flickered his eyes back open at the touch. Will’s eyes dropped to Hannibal’s grinning mouth, and back up into his dark eyes, waiting. 

“And then you came with those red mournful lips,” he sighed. 

“And with you came the whole of the world’s tears,” Hannibal responded, pleased with the reference. He leaned down to brush his lips against Will’s chin, only to be caught in a firm hand. His thoughts rapid-cycled; _Have I trespassed? What punishment do I receive for attempting to show love?_ He found himself frozen, pinned beneath Will’s serious expression. 

“No more in-betweens. If you want to hold me, hold me. You don’t need to gut me.” He brought his mouth close, barely whispering. 

“If you want to kiss me,” he murmured. “Kiss me.” 

It was Hannibal’s turn at the rapid pulse, and he immediately crushed his lips against Will’s, his hair invaded by Will’s hands, pulling him nearer. He licked his mouth open, eliciting a steady groan from the younger man squirming beneath him. He found himself smiling into the kiss, pleased with his efforts and Will’s determination to be truly kissed. He broke away to look at Will’s glossy, blown pupils. 

“I need to check on the stew,” he said dumbly. 

Will laughed, catching his breath. 

“Go on. I’ll always be here for later.” 

Peeling himself from the couch, he considered those strange words.  _ No in-betweens. Always.  _ Feeling Will’s stare coat his skin, he nervously looked into the pot he had left simmering on the stove. He watched a bay leaf spin dramatically through the broth before deciding it was finally time to serve.

**Author's Note:**

> Matelote Normande is a French fish stew made with hard cider. Matelote translates to "sailor".  
> The lines of poetry that Will and Hannibal exchange are from Yeats' "The Sorrow of Love".


End file.
